


So If You're Lonely

by stepantrofimovic



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blind Date, M/M, Mutual Pining, Undercover Missions, never trust Sitwell to set you up on a date, somewhat blatant Stan Lee Cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: Life would be a lot easier if, perhaps, Phil explained that he goes method during undercover missions. Or if Clint asked Phil why he doesn’t like Clint. But then, of course, we wouldn’t have a good story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ereshai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/gifts).



> For ereshai, as an answer to this prompt: ‘Clint and Phil have only ever met each other while undercover, when they are using personas that are wildly different from who they actually are. They are interested in each other, but they don't ever try to meet each other off-mission because each thinks the other won't like them when they are being themselves. Then Jasper sets them up on a blind date with each other.’ I had a blast writing this, thank you so much! I hope you’re having a great holiday season!
> 
> Thank you also, as always, to calltomuster for reading through this, cheerleading and Ameripicking, as well as letting me quote her in the summary for this fic.
> 
> Title from Franz Ferdinand's _Take Me Out_ , which remains in my opinion one of the best underappreciated C/C theme songs.

The first time he meets Clint Barton, Phil Coulson is on a mission to grope said Clint Barton’s ass.

Okay, well. It would be more accurate, perhaps, to say that Phil’s mission will involve groping Clint’s ass. It’s not quite the main objective, to be sure.

Also, technically, Phil doesn’t know that yet.

At the moment, Phil’s mind is many miles away from the whole concept of ass-groping. All Phil wants right now is for his SHIELD contact to finally show up, so that he can hand over the miniaturized hard drive that’s currently burning a hole in his pocket, and officially declare this godforsaken mission finished.

If the handover goes smoothly, Phil can hope for an extraction before tomorrow morning. Which would be a blessing, considering he’s been working on this undercover mission for three months, working his way towards Einar Johannsen’s inner circle for two, and carefully copying all incriminating evidence off Johannsen’s home computer and onto the hard drive for a week.

Mr. Johannsen is a former art historian turned art trafficker who likes to pretend he’s some kind of grand-scale crime lord. He’s really, really not, and if it weren’t for the fact that a surprising number of the pieces that have passed through his hands in the past couple of years were giving off strange radioactive signatures, he wouldn’t even remotely be on SHIELD’s radar. As things stand, however, not only he’s very much on that, but, unfortunately for Phil, Hill decided that the perfect person to send for the job was Malcolm Russo.

Malcolm is the third-generation descendant of Italian immigrants who moved to New York and decided to make a career out of small-scale food fraud. Olive oil, cheese, wine – you name it, the Russo family could provide it at a quarter of the market price, and with a convincing enough taste that local grocers could pass it off as the real deal. The Russos never made the jump to the upscale criminal world, but between the family business and the predictable Italian family dynamics, Malcolm grew up in the kind of environment which breeds either obnoxious self-confidence or a life’s worth of social anxiety. He turned out to be all the former, of course: loud and boisterous, despite a somewhat unassuming appearance, aggressive, and so sure of his manly charms that he has no qualms in flirting with anyone living and breathing, no matter their position on the gender spectrum.

In short, Malcolm’s persona is the kind of profile that a still-green SHIELD agent in training will come up with when he’s taking his first class on undercover work and he’s asked to create the identity that is the farthest away from his own personality but that he still feels like he can pull off. Unfortunately for the rookie agent in question, SHIELD keeps detailed records of this sort of thing, and is not afraid to test an interesting profile out within mission parameters.

And that’s how Phil Coulson ended up successfully pulling off Malcolm Russo for a handful of missions. To be entirely honest, of course, the ‘successfully’ bit is still somewhat under question for this one – Phil is on his fourth vodka tonic (four fifths of which have been discreetly poured into the closest potted plant, but that’s a secret between him and the sad-looking pothos that will probably not survive the night), his persona getting louder and more obnoxious by the minute, and his contact is still neglecting to show up.

It turns out to be worth the wait, after all, because when they do show up, it’s in the form of Agent Barton. He’s decked out in full clubbing outfit, complete with leather pants that leave exactly nothing to the imagination but that still somehow manage to have front pockets. Phil will realize the importance of the latter in a few moments; for now, he’s mostly preoccupied with getting himself on the dance floor, where Barton is making quite the spectacle of himself.

It’s anything but a dumb plan, making the handoff in what could seem to be the most exposed part of the club. It’s the one place where it will be really hard for anyone to follow their movements amidst the mass of bodies – especially since Barton seems to have decided to plaster himself all over Phil.

Barton’s an amazing dancer, Phil notes distantly – nothing surprising, he surmises, remembering Barton’s circus past from his SHIELD files. They haven’t really had an occasion to work together before – Barton has not been in SHIELD for that long, for that matter –, but Nick had been keen on getting Phil’s opinion when he was considering bringing the archer in. And Phil has to admit that, even apart from Barton’s smart idea on how to get close enough to Phil, they seem to work well together. Or rather, Barton’s undercover persona fits amazingly well with Malcolm Russo’s character – he’s dancing around and in front of him with no apparent inhibitions, giving Malcolm his full attention and making him feel like he’s made yet another conquest, all the while making sure that he’s appropriately aroused and not tempted to wander off looking for new prey.

It might be those dancing skills, but it takes Phil way too long to realize what he’s supposed to be doing. After Barton slips his hands into his back pockets for the third time, he finally understands that he’s looking for something, not just interested in what’s behind the fabric. Unfortunately, that something is on the wrong side of Phil’s pants – and really, that’s a statement Phil did not expect he would be making at any point in his life.

Barton is at least a lot quicker on the uptake – when Phil spins him around and starts grinding against his ass, slipping his hands into his _very_ tight front pockets in turn, he gets the message immediately. After an appropriate (or inappropriate, to be honest) amount of time has passed, he flips their positions and finally manages to get his hands on the flash drive. In a heartbeat, he lifts it from Phil’s pocket and tucks it securely into his own.

The grin that they exchange before Barton disappears from the dance floor is at least equal parts part of the act and genuine relief from a mission ended well. As he wades through the dancing crowd back towards the bar, Phil only distantly notices that despite his recent activities he’s barely aroused, if at all. This is work, he has no doubts about that. When John Garrett, while they’re driving away after Phil’s extraction, leers at him and asks if he enjoyed Barton’s undercover skills, Phil barely understands why he’s smirking.

***

The next time Clint gets to work side by side with Coulson, it’s for a wet job. Coulson is handler and eyes on the ground, waiting for their mark to leave the hotel he’s been reported to be staying in. Clint is high up on the building across the street, ready to ensure that he does not get too far from the entrance. In a back alley, Melinda May is coordinating extraction with her usual efficiency.

Coulson, for his part, seems to have taken a page off May’s book, or maybe just decided there’s no reason for him to make this longer than it needs to be. In the three hours they’re kept waiting, Clint’s comm stays silent, not a word more than necessary being exchanged. Clint, for his part, makes sure to check in like clockwork every fifteen minutes, finally coming back online to confirm the kill shot while already en route to May’s position.

During debrief, Clint’s verbal report is terse, but makes a point of mentioning that he appreciated that the comms were kept silent throughout the op. It’s not a lie – he did, after all, value the lack of any attempt from Coulson to make an assassination mission any less harsh and impersonal than it was. One would be surprised how many handlers have yet to figure out that part. Still, Clint’s remark reaches his intended purpose – Coulson commends him for a fast and clean job, Fury nods from the back of the room, looking almost pleased, and Clint is sent home feeling like he passed some kind of test.

Three weeks later, he finds out he wasn’t wrong.

***

In a way, Phil has been waiting for a mission like this since he graduated from SHIELD Academy.

It’s not that he’s ambitious, not quite. Okay, maybe a little. He does appreciate some recognition in his job, but most importantly, he’s been waiting for an occasion to make a difference. Although, to be honest, he didn’t expect for said occasion to come through an assassination mission.

Now, however, they have reliable intel that the Black Widow is in Boston, and ready to strike. It’s an occasion SHIELD has spent careful months preparing for, the net slowly but constantly tightening, and now that the final, mortal trap is laid, it’s up to Phil to spring it.

Well, Phil and Agent Barton.

“You work well together,” Nick says when Phil casually asks why, “and Barton is the only one I trust to take the shot.”

It’s not Nick’s way to be so straightforward with his reasons. In hindsight, that should have been enough for Phil to figure out that he had another plan.

For now, however, he’s worried enough about the details of the mission not to pay attention. They don’t have a trace on the Widow yet, and they don’t know when she plans to strike; what they do know is that her target is the PI for a lab in Brigham & Women’s hospital, so Phil will be posing as a newly hired technician for another lab in the same building. Clint, on the other hand, is going to spend most of his time holed up in an inconspicuous sniper nest in the building across the street, waiting and keeping a close eye on various CCTV feeds.

Of course, the Widow’s mark may be a notorious workaholic, but even she goes home at night, so SHIELD made sure to rent a cozy two-bedroom house in Brookline, right next to where she lives. As for Agents Coulson and Barton, they will just have to get used to sharing living quarters for a few days – or, as it turns out, weeks, because the Black Widow is neglecting to show up.

***

The issue with Phil working undercover is, he goes method. He doesn’t do that just for elaborate covers like Malcolm Russo; even for Dr. Louis Hornick, whose personality is about as bright and colorful as that of a steamed flounder, there are some details that Phil feels the need to commit to 24/7. It helps, especially when he has to pretend to be someone else on an everyday basis while paying attention to lab protocols he has somewhat hastily learned over the past two weeks.

For instance, Dr. Hornick is the kind of man who alphabetizes his bookshelves. And freaks out over furniture being pushed out of place, or dust on the bathroom shelves. In fact, Dr. Hornick is more than prepared to get into a fight with his housemate over one of these things at least once over the length of their cohabitation, simply because very few people can be expected to get along with his anal level of control of his living space.

Instead, over the span of two weeks, Barton – or John Hayes, as the name on the lease says –somehow manages not to set off Louis Hornick’s brittle temper even once. The main reason for that is probably that John Hayes is, well, very quiet. And still.

Privately, Phil guesses that Barton must have a sniper mindset he falls into during missions, as much as Phil himself has an undercover mindset. Still, why Barton might want to keep that up at home is a mystery – in his shoes, Phil would be champing at the bit for some downtime after being cooped up in a sniper’s nest for ten hours a day.

And yet, all the time they’re together, Barton stays still. He barely speaks, carefully controls and economizes on his every movement, and seems not to leave any trace of his passage through the house. After a few days of his attempts at conversation being shut off by Barton’s monosyllables, and a few more spent resenting Barton’s lack of collaboration, Phil decides that Dr. Hornick wouldn’t mind such an unobtrusive housemate after all, and settles in for a long and boring mission.

Maybe that’s the reason why he’s so unprepared when the Black Widow finally shows up, and Barton refuses to take the shot. Then, again, he’s not sure Barton himself had decided that he was going to go against orders until he saw Natasha Romanoff and realized that she was there only because she wanted him to kill her.

Still, when Barton comes on comms asking for permission to go dark and seek contact with the Black Widow – with the unspoken implication that he will do that whether permission is granted or not –, Phil remembers Nick’s words about Barton being the only one he trusted. All of a sudden, he knows that Nick Fury didn’t just trust his best sniper to take the shot – he trusted the agent he’d brought in from the cold to do the same with the Black Widow, if he thought there was any chance of her letting him do so.

“Permission granted,” Phil mutters, and as his commlink clicks silent, he can only pray that they haven’t both made a colossal mistake.

***

They become a team after that. It takes a while for the Black Widow – for Agent Romanoff to be fully integrated into SHIELD’s ranks, of course, but as soon as that is done, Strike Team Delta becomes a thing. And what a thing it becomes. Barton and Romanoff complement each other beautifully, both on the field and off, if the rumors are anything to go by. As for Coulson, well, he knows his own merits well enough not to deny his own contribution to the team’s accomplishments.

That’s all there is to it, really. There is no reason for the members of a SHIELD team to fraternize outside of missions and briefings, so Strike Team Delta doesn’t either. Phil tries not to think about the weekly pizza nights Strike Team Beta is having, and when he does, he tells himself that Jasper and Melinda have basically lived in each other’s pockets since the Academy, so it stands to reason that they’d start dragging Bobbi along as well. Really, there’s no need to make comparisons with his current situation, or for him to feel that pinprick of unhappiness every time he sees Barton and Romanoff hanging out in the canteen, or even having ice cream together while off duty in Los Angeles, that one time.

It’s fine, he thinks. He has other friends among his co-workers, it’s not like he’ll be lonely if Barton and Romanoff don’t include him in their free time activities. Still, the knowledge that he may be a good handler, but his team is not at all interested in him personally, stings.

He’ll get over it, he guesses. For now, there’s probably another mission he can start planning, just to get his mind off these thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

“You are not okay,” Natasha says, and Clint is torn between appreciating the fact that she’s said something that could lead to conflict – the one thing she’s still rarely comfortable enough to do, even around him – and just taking off and running away to avoid this conversation. As a result, he misses his step and has to concentrate to avoid faceplanting on the pavement.

He can see Natasha sneaking a glance at him over her shoulder. “You’ve been tense and snappish all day, and you barely picked at your lunch. You only do that when you’re worried.”

She stops shy of asking him what’s wrong, but Clint understands the question perfectly well, thank you. Now, it’s just a matter of finding a relatively safe way to answer it.

In the end, he goes with a half-truth. “It’s this next mission.”

“The one you and Coulson just finished planning?”

Well, and that’s it for trying for casual. He nods.

“Are you worried that he will break cover? Or,” and Natasha’s eyes narrow dangerously at that, “that you won’t be able to keep your cover around him.”

Clint groans, fighting the temptation to drop his face in his hands. “No, Coulson’s fine. And I should be, really.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. It’s just that, uh.” This time, Clint gives in and hides his face. There’s no way he’ll be able to finish that sentence while seeing the light of the sun. “Coulson doesn’t like me,” he mutters from behind his fingers.

“Have you ever talked to him?”

Nat hasn’t stopped walking, so Clint is forced to abandon his dramatic pose to catch up with her. “Not off mission, no.”

“Then how do you know what he thinks of you? You seem to get along fine on missions,” she adds.

He shakes his head. “That’s the point. He likes me _on missions_ , Nat.”

It only takes a moment for Natasha to understand his meaning. “Oh,” she says.

“Yeah. On missions, I’m efficient. I’m organized. I keep silent on comms, because if I don’t the mission will never be over, and I know we all want to get it out of the way as soon as we can. Off duty – well, you’ve seen me off duty. I spilled mocha on my pants today because I forgot my cup was still half full.”

“And you think Coulson won’t like that.”

“Coulson does _not_ like that, Nat. You’ve seen how he is. The guy probably sorts his underwear by color.”

“The main problem here being that you would be very happy to mess with his underwear.”

It takes a few moments for Clint to stop sputtering. He’s had more than a few tastes of Natasha’s bluntness over the past months, but she can still surprise him. Especially since it’s taken a while for her to feel comfortable enough to poke him that way.

She doesn’t seem to be done with him, though. “And I guess it doesn’t help that Fury’s idea of a mission is for the two of you to pretend to be dating.”

“It doesn’t.” Clint shakes his head a little too firmly. “It’s a disaster waiting to happen.” He turns his best puppy dog eyes at her, knowing that they will have no effect. “He’ll hate me, Nat. And even if he doesn’t, he’ll never even think of me in that way outside of this mission. And then I’ll have to live with this picture of him in my head forever.”

Natasha ponders his words for a while, cocking her head to the side. “You are being overdramatic,” she finally proclaims.

“Just wait and see if I am,” Clint protests. “Just wait and see.”

***

It doesn’t go as bad as Clint was expecting. It goes far worse. And, because Clint is exactly that kind of pathetic asshole, the thing that finally tips him over the edge is _holding hands_.

It starts like this. They’re supposed to be playing a fairly new couple – been out together enough times that they’re not too awkward around each other, but with plenty of things to talk about still. They’re lazing outside in the afternoon sun, sharing a truly oversized cup of gelato, because that’s what you do when in Barcelona on your first big romantic getaway together.

Clint is trying very hard not to think about how foreign the whole thing is to him, how he’s never been in this kind of relationship his whole life. That thought right now is about as safe as dwelling on the fact that it’s _Coulson_ who’s sitting in front of him.

Coulson, wearing a pair of hipster-y glasses that is about as far as it gets from his usual aviators, leaning into Clint’s personal space to steal another spoonful while discreetly checking up and down the Rambla for their mark. And yes, right there, that’s what Clint is trying to focus on – not Coulson in his personal space, thank you very much, but the subtle reminders that they’re on a mission, that there is nothing real about all this.

Because Coulson is being wonderful, and by wonderful, Clint means the kind of person who, if this were real, would have him running for the hills in no time.

It’s not that Clint thinks he does not deserve someone like Phil, or the guy Phil is pretending to be right now. The guy who just spent way too much time sharing random history facts about Catalonia, talking about the architecture, what they were going to do the next day, and generally being as open as he could be about how happy he is to be here with Clint, how he’s looking forward to showing him around – and maybe showing him off too, just a little bit.

Clint is nodding and listening, trying to keep up a smile at fake-Phil’s dorky interests and general heart-on-his-sleeve attitude, all the while feeling like someone’s stripped him naked and is exposing him in the middle of the street. The thing is, Clint does _not_ do public affection. He most definitely does not do ‘staring doe-eyed at your partner while doing your best to be a good listener and ask questions at the right times.’ He doesn’t like being put on display, can’t stand the idea that all this is nothing but a subtle test, one that will end as soon as he makes a mistake and lets Phil realize that he’s nothing like what he expected.

By which he means, this would be a test. If it were real. Which it’s not. Deep breath, center yourself, remember that you’re on a mission. You can do this, Clint Barton.

They’ve been doing this for the better part of an hour, ice cream long gone and/or melted before they could eat it all, when Coulson smiles – a smile that Clint has rarely seen, that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and oh, wait, he could get used to this, he really likes this, can he see it more often – and leans over the tiny café table to grab Clint’s hand.

Well, take Clint’s hand. Romantically entwine their fingers together, or whatever people who are really in love, or would like to convince themselves they are, like to do. But Clint doesn’t do PDAs, and he most definitely does not do anything that will make him feel trapped in a public space. His hand jerks back from under Coulson’s as fast as if he’d been burned.

His first thought is that he should put his hand back. Immediately. His second thought is that there’s no way he’ll manage to do that naturally, that Coulson will be disappointed by his lack of undercover skills. This, for some reason, makes Clint feel worse than all the forced displays of affection in the world.

He doesn’t get any more time to dwell on it, because Coulson has jumped to his feet and is now dashing down the sidewalk after their mark. As he stands up and joins the chase, Clint silently thanks the guy for showing up at the perfect moment.

***

“Okay, that’s it,” Jasper says, clasping Phil’s shoulder in a gesture very few people can make without finding themselves pinned to a wall by their testicles. “You need to get out.”

“I get out of here every evening, Jasper, thanks,” Phil shoots back mildly, carrying on walking. Jasper does not immediately let go, which leads to a few feet of awkward shuffling and hopping before Phil finally gives in and stops.

“We’re not saying anything about what time you get out of here in the evening. Yet.”

“I appreciate my personal life staying personal, you know.” There’s just enough of a sting in Phil’s words that Jasper should realize he’s walking over shaky ground. He’s not been in a good mood lately, which doesn’t help – he has plenty of reflections over his sad and lonely life he can make on his own, no need of Jasper’s help, thank you very much.

“Don’t worry, I’m not staging an intervention over your coffee drinking habits – although seriously, Phil, common room sludge at 7pm?” He holds up his hands placatingly as Phil glares at him. “I’m here to tell you we’ve found someone for you. To go on a date with.”

“We?” Phil narrows his eyes even more. “Found? How, exactly, have you assumed I was even looking?”

“You’re not, which is exactly the problem.”

“You’re dodging my –” Jasper grins and winks, which is a worrying sign. A Very Worrying sign.

“Tomorrow evening at 6. At Stan’s diner, because you’re in love with his all-day breakfast menu, don’t even try to deny it.”

Phil starts to shake his head, seeing the easy way out. “I have a meeting at 5 tomorrow, no way I’ll be done by –”

“I’m sure if you look at your calendar you will find the meeting has been cancelled.”

Phil narrows his eyes at Jasper. Messing with his schedule means that at least Hill is involved, if not someone higher up. Nick wouldn’t – well, no. Nick would _totally_ do that to him.

“Can I at least know who I’m going out with, by any chance?”

Jasper, the smug bastard, shakes his head. “Concept of blind date at all familiar to you, Coulson?” He holds up a placating hand at Phil’s glare, but he’s still smirking. “It’s fine, Phil. You don’t know him, but you’ll like him. You can trust me, for once.”

***

Trusting Jasper is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea. That’s Phil’s first thought as he spots his ‘date.’

Sitting in the very last booth in the corner of the diner, playing nervously with a pile of napkins, is none other than Agent Barton. As the door chimes with Phil’s entrance, he looks up, and his expression suddenly turns stony.

He doesn’t stand up and flee, however, which is a good sign. Or, at least, Phil thinks so.

“Evening, Agent Coulson,” the owner calls from behind the bar. “Pancakes and coffee?”

“Yes, please, Stan.” Considering he’s here, he reasons, he might as well get something to eat. Albeit reluctantly, his feet carry him to the booth where Clint is sitting. He has tidied away all the napkins, Phil notices, apart from one, which he’s currently proceeding to tear into minute shreds.

“So,” Phil says, as he slides into the booth opposite him.

“Um,” is Clint’s very eloquent response.

“I don’t alphabetize my bookshelves,” Phil blurts out, just as Clint opens with, “I’m not a good listener.”

That leads to a couple of seconds’ stunned silence, finally broken when Phil regains some of his balance. “Looks like we both have something to confess,” he says, trying for light-hearted and missing by a few miles, judging from the tightness in Clint’s smile.

“Um… you go first?” Clint tries, sounding like there’s something unpleasant stuck in his throat. Phil would be more bothered by it if he weren’t starting to get an idea of what the issue here may be. The kind of idea that makes his heart beat a bit faster in anticipation.

“Okay,” he says, voice coming out just a tad breathless. “I’m not as confident as I pretend to be. I’m not a stickler for tidiness. Actually, I can’t seem to keep my living space from filling up with junk, and I don’t have enough free time to tidy up anyway. Which I guess leads us straight to point three: I’m a workaholic. I forget about people when I’m working. Missed appointments, skipping anniversaries, that kind of thing.”

He can see Clint getting restless at that, so he’s not surprised when he interrupts, mumbling, “I’ve never got to the first anniversary anyway.”

Phil lets out a silent breath. He wants to smile, but he’s not sure how Clint would take that right now. “What else?”

“I, uh, I don’t like PDAs.”

“I think I’ve noticed that.”

He can see Clint’s throat working as he swallows. “’f course you did. I’m, I said that, I’m not a good listener. I can talk your ear off about random shit, new arrow prototypes and all that, and I like learning about other people’s stuff, but then I’m never sure what kind of questions I should ask to let them know I’m interested. Also, I’m blunt?” He finishes off with a rueful smile.

Phil nods. “I’m not. Blunt, I mean. Jasper says I have a major emotional constipation problem, and that getting me to speak my mind is like pulling teeth out of the mouth of a Tasmanian devil. He’s speaking from personal experience there.”

That startles a laugh out of Clint. “With you or the Tasmanian devil?”

“I’m afraid the answer is both,” Phil smirks, and then he finds himself carrying on with, “That might be something we have to work through. The communication thing.”

“Yeah, especially since I’m just going to assume you hate me if – wait.” Phil can see the exact moment when Clint’s brain catches up with his mouth, and this time the light in Clint’s eyes does set Phil’s heart aflutter. “Did you just imply we – you – are we doing this?”

“If by ‘this’ you mean dating each other, then yes, I would very much like to do this with you. Or, well, we could also just try being friends. If. I mean. If this is moving too fast for you. We haven’t exactly been –”

Thankfully, Clint cuts him off before he can stick his foot too far into his mouth. “I’m up for it,” he says. “The dating thing. It’s – I can’t promise it’s going to work out.” He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous gesture that Phil knows very well.

“Neither can I,” Phil smiles back. “I think it’s worth trying, though.”

He doesn’t say, _I think you’re worth trying_ , but he hopes Clint gets the message anyway.

Two years later, he will say it, in front of all their friends (including a very smug looking Jasper) and a judge. In Clint’s eyes, he can see the same light of hope and happiness that he knows is mirrored in his own.


End file.
